|
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
In ConcertMichael SwanwickAsimov's Science FictionSeptember, 1992 Michael Swanwick's brilliant novel, Stations of the Tide (IAsfm, Mid-December 1990-January 1991), won the 1991 Nebula award. After he committed himself to setting his new story in Sevastopol, he discovered the city was the home of the Black Sea Fleet and a military secret. No maps of Sevastopol are available and "foreigners are allowed in only at the heads of large armies." Mr. Swanwick is indebted to Paul Park, Mike N. Korkin, and Andrei Chertkov for helping him get the details right.
The posters had been plastered all over Sevastopol for a month, huge black-and-red things with only two words on them:
IN CONCERT Nothing else. Just those two words and the harsh profile of a face so familiar to Tex that it sometimes seemed hard-wired into his neural structure, the outward expression of a truth encoded in his genes from birth. Time, place, and price had been omitted so the same posters could be used in every city of the tour. Everybody knew no tickets would ever reach the box office. Favors would be called in, backs scratched, envelopes stuffed with American currency would exchange hands. For weeks, the pasteboards had described complex orbits between the black market and the highest reaches of the Party hierarchy, each one being traded again and again, multiplying in value, greasing the wheels, the perfect bribe, the surest way of getting anything from a new Sony Walkman to a preferred position on the waiting lists for a bigger apartment. Tonight they would all—tickets, favors, bribes—come to rest. "Get up, you hooligan!" Tex squinted up into the face of the squattest, ugliest woman he had ever seen. Shapeless dress, shapeless body, a red babushka from which dry wisps of grey hair struggled to escape. Twin lines from the corners of her mouth framed her chin, giving her the jaws of a turtle. Maybe she was a gnome. "Hah?" He had been sitting at the bottom of a long flight of public steps, staring idly through the fumes and traffic at a lot across the prospekt. A makeshift market had been built there, where vendors sold vegetables, hot coffee, and flowers from small kiosks. He was working on a song. Trying to come up with a rhyme for "oblivion." "Don't sprawl like that! Shame on you! Who do you think you are to block everybody's passage?" The steps rose past the white-walled city offices and though it was not yet quitting time all the apparatchiks had left early to avoid the weekend crush of traffic to their country dachas. The buildings were empty and so were the stairs. Without saying a word, Tex put his guitar back into its case and closed the snaps. Swiping at the seat of his cheap Bulgarian jeans, he stood and smiled at her. She sniffed and turned away. The No. 10 trolleybus arrived then, and Tex got on. A couple of people were ahead of him at the punch, so he didn't bother to cancel his ticket. He found a seat near the back and, gripping his guitar case between his knees, stared glumly out a scratched and dirty window, trying to imagine himself on stage, electric guitar slung low at the hip, and in the audience girls in punk leather screaming ecstatically. The old woman perversely took the seat beside him, though there were others available. With a lurch and a harsh clatter of gears, the trolleybus started off. A year ago it would have run soundlessly. Next year it might not run at all. Thank you, Comrade Gorbachev. More posters floated by, singly and in groups. On the blind side of an old warehouse they had been plastered up three-by-four like a video array set to multiply the same static image over and over. IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT IN CONCERT Somebody had defaced each and every poster with the circle-and-A anarchy symbol. "Vandals!" The turtle woman jabbed a bony finger in Tex's ribs. "That's a disgusting way to treat the People's property! These hoodlums probably go to the same school as you—why don't you and your friends do something about them? Band together, show some solidarity, teach them respect. Sevastopol is such a beautiful city, after all, don't you agree?" "Sevastopol is a shithole." Tex turned away from the outraged O of her mouth and stared out the window again. They were going by a park; wrought-iron bandstands, couples out strolling hand in hand. It was very nineteenth-century. He sighed. He didn't even know why he was bothering. Both Boris and Andrei had sneered when he asked if they wanted to come along. It was pointless, they said. The little he could hear from outside wasn't going to be worth listening to. Anyway, the Boss was old stuff, little more than a walking cadaver kept alive by cryonics, morphine, and bimonthly whole-blood changes. Three surgeons traveled as part of his road crew and a team of paramedics waited on standby alert backstage whenever he performed. Then Andrei had said that if Tex wanted to take in some real music, he had the new Butthole Surfers bootleg, which his sister's boyfriend, who worked a Black Sea merchanter, had copped in a greymarket bazaar in Turkey. They could maybe score some hashish from one of the Afghan War vets who hung around the servicemen's club, and go out behind the skating rink and get stoned and drunk and break things. Tex had replied that he was sick to death of hardcore and that it was just an excuse for no-talents who could scream but couldn't sing to avoid learning how to finger bar chords. That hadn't pleased Boris, who had just settled on the stage name of Misha Cyberpunk and was thinking of shaving his head. He'd asked if that meant they were going to work up yet another version of "Mustang Sally." At which point Andrei had had to step in to prevent a fight. So he was going alone. Worse, his friends had a point. This trip was a perfect example of what his teachers called "the cult of personality" whenever the bastards got onto the subject of their students' taste in music. He was being a jerk. No question about that. But still. This was more than just another appearance by just another guitar hero. This was more than just another one-night stand by one of the founding fathers of rock and roll. So what if he had to listen from outside the hall? It was the last chance he was ever going to have to get even that close to the man. It was the Boss's farewell tour. * * * * * Forty minutes later the trolleybus let him off at the concert hall. The Fisherman's Palace of Culture stood above Kamyshovaya Bay, surrounded by gently sloping grass lawns. It was a great four-story square building, all glass and concrete, with seating for two thousand spectators, and half again that many more if they decided to pack the aisles. They could have booked the act into the soccer stadium and filled every seat; but the Boss preferred concert halls. The acoustics were more to his liking. It was late afternoon. A salt breeze blew up from the water, and he could look down on the fishing craft at anchor in the bay. The lawns were heroically large, muscular Social Realist landscaping intended to proclaim the glory and triumph of the Soviet sod and fertilizer industries. The effect was badly undercut by the line of totalitarian grey highrises across the roadway, concrete monsters identical down to their waterstains. Some of their hard-faced denizens had set up card tables by the parking lot and were offering packs of Winstons and Belgian beer at thirty rubles a can. A surprisingly large number of people were standing casually about the concert hall grounds, trying not to look conspicuous. A fisherman reclined on the grass, cap on his knee and a brown paper bag in his hand. His trousers were dirty and his sweater torn. "Comrade musician! Come, have a swig." He waggled the bag invitingly. Tex shrugged and awkwardly sat down beside him. Inside, though, he felt a wonderful warmth. For this one moment, everything was okay. Sitting above the bay, sharing a bottle with a real fisherman, was an authentic experience, an unquestionably cool thing to be doing. He accepted the bottle and drank. The vodka was warm and tasted of fuel oil. He took too large a mouthful, choked, gasped, and forced a smile. "Good stuff," he said. "American!" The fisherman sounded pleased. He held out a hand. "It is good to meet a fine young American boy like you. My name is Yuri." He took the proffered hand and shook his head. "I've been a citizen for years. My father's a researcher for the Institute of Oceanography." He was sick of the questions everyone asked when they heard his accent and he hated his parents for bringing him here. There were times when even the beatings the kids back in Austin gave him for being a Commie pinko creep would be a small price to pay if he could return home. He wasn't treated all that much better here anyway. "The guys at school call me Tex." He managed to make it sound as if they'd never meant it as an insult. Yuri grinned broadly, showing steel teeth and hideous gums. "Play some music. Something romantic, maybe it will draw in some pretty girls." "Uh, well…" He unlatched the case, drew out the guitar, began tuning his strings. "Actually, I'm not as good as I'd like to be. I've got this band together," presuming that Andrei and good old Misha Cyberpunk hadn't disbanded Chernobyl in his absence, "but it's hard to find a place to practice." He strummed a C chord, shifted to an F and then a B. Finally he settled on a slow version he'd worked up of "I am the Walrus," singing the words in English and crooning the "yellow matter custard" line with exaggerated sweetness. "You are another Vladimir Vysotsky," the fisherman said admiringly. A couple of art students—the boy was dressed in black and had dyed his hair an unnatural red—wandered within range of Yuri's bellow, and he waved them over. "Comrade artists! Come join us, have a swig!" * * * * * "You know why I'm here?" Yuri asked two hours later. The No. 7 bus had just pulled up to the front of the hall, and the latest load of ticketholders were getting off. They were chatting happily, eagerly, the pampered offspring of Party officials, most of them, with a few low-ranking Red Army or Black Sea Fleet officers scattered here and there for flavoring. Many were vacationers from the bathing resorts, dressed in Benetton fashions. They pooled and flowed elegantly up the twin stairways to the second floor entrance. In addition to the art students, Yuri had drawn in a young grocery clerk, a locksmith, and a scruffy blond girl who said she was a truck driver, though nobody believed her. "Do you know why?" Smiling, they shook their heads. "I am here because of them. All those guys walking up the steps into the Fisherman's Palace of Culture. I thought, how embarrassed they must be at not having a single fisherman in the Fisherman's Palace. So here I am. You're welcome!" he shouted to a cluster of apparatchiks climbing out of their Mercedes. They pointedly ignored him. "Ahh, I love those bastards, and they know it." "You may be here," said the redheaded art student, "but you couldn't get inside that building tonight to save your life." "Who said that?" Yuri sat up straight and stared around him incredulously. "Of course I could get in. There is always a way in for a man like me." The student laughed uneasily, like someone who is trying to be pleasant but is not sure he understands the joke. "You don't believe me? I'll show you. I'll get in and I'll get all of you in with me." He lurched to his feet. "Come on, it's my treat!" * * * * * "This is crazy," Tex said. They had circled the building three times, trying all the side doors and sizing up security—very tight—at the loading dock out back where the equipment trucks were parked. Now they were back at the first door they had checked. "It couldn't hurt to try." Yuri knocked. Nothing happened. He tried again, louder. Still nothing. Balling his hand into a fist he pounded at the door until it echoed and boomed. After a minute, the door opened slightly. A beefy militiaman stood within, a big moustache all but hiding his mouth. "What do you want?" He glared at them. Tex could see he was holding the door from the inside so it couldn't be grabbed away from him. Yuri smiled ingratiatingly and said, "Comrade! Look at us. I have the honor to be an honest fisherman. My friend here"—he nodded at Tex—"is a factory worker and himself a talented musician. This young man in black is a student who spent the last harvest digging potatoes on a co-operative. This fine young woman—" The guard started to close the door, and Yuri grabbed at the edge. "Listen to me! We are the Masses, we are the People, we are the Revolution! Those well-dressed people in there"—he pointed scornfully—"who are they? The privileged class, I say this not angrily but in sad truth. Why are they inside and we without? This is a betrayal of the principles of—" "Fifty dollars American," said the militiaman, "and I'll let six of you in. No more. If you get the money together come back to this door and knock." He slammed it in their faces. But when they pooled their resources it turned out they were all of them paupers. All together they had only eight-nine rubles and three American singles. "Anyway," the grocer grumbled, "even if we had the rubles, where would we find somebody with the hard currency to sell?" The locksmith glanced significantly at the scragggly line of card tables by the lot but said nothing. "Don't be downcast," Yuri said. He gathered the paper notes together, arranging them in his fist so they made an untidy mass with the greenbacks on the outside. "Looks pretty good, eh? I'll wave these in fatso's face, and when he makes a grab at them, Tex will yank open the door and we'll all push forward. We'll overwhelm the little prick." They went back to the door. "I can't believe we're doing this." The female art student hugged herself and shivered. Yuri raised a hand. "Are we all in place? Tex—stand right there, be ready for action." Tex positioned himself, setting his guitar case by his feet to free his hands. Their little group was drawing attention now. Three or four loiterers joined them to see what was up. Yuri banged on the door. "Hey in there! Get off your thumb and open up!" The door opened a cautious crack. "Let me count—" the militiaman said suspiciously, and "Now!" Yuri shouted. Eight hands seized the door, and it flew open with a crash. Scooping up his guitar, Tex joined the others as they surged forward. The guard fell back in angry astonishment, pulling a truncheon from his belt. All was confusion. Tex was running wildly down the hallway when a sudden crack made him turn his head. Yuri was sinking to his knees, face a glistening red. Drops of blood flew from the billy club. It was paralyzing, unbelievable. Tex stopped, the art students flashing by hand in hand, and stared. "Run!" Yuri gasped. Then the fat militiaman was coming directly toward him, with an expression so cold and violent that Tex panicked. He fled blindly, guitar case knocking against his side. What am I doing here? he wondered. He no longer had the slightest interest in seeing the show. He pushed through a crowded corridor. People were running, shouting, struggling. There was a militiaman kneeling atop the little truck driver's chest. She was trying to bite his arm. Tex turned a corner, ran up a concrete and steel stairway. Heavy footsteps pounded behind him. He ran like the wind, through corridors and empty rehearsal halls, without shaking his pursuer. His mind was blank with fear. He was hopelessly lost. The militiaman caught up to Tex in the doorway of a dressing room and knocked him to the ground. The guitar case skittered away. A boot smashed into his ribs, and in the sudden crystalline clarity of the pain, he found himself looking up into the goateed face of a man who had swiveled in his seat from a makeup mirror to see what the fuss was about. It was a heartbreakingly familiar face. It was the Boss himself—Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, idol of millions, the man known to his countless fans as Nikolai Lenin. In that agonized instant there was time enough to take in everything and yet no time in which to act. He saw Lenin's calm, dispassionate face looking thoughtfully down at him, and heard the sadistic chuckle of the guard as he reached down to grab Tex's collar. He saw the knickknacks on the dresser top, a framed autographed picture of Karl Marx holding his saxophone, a silver hairbrush, a pack of Salems. Half sunk in shadow, the objects seemed freighted with awful significance. Lenin watched silently as the militiaman hauled Tex up and smashed him in the face with his brutal fist. Tex felt a wondering sense of betrayal and then he was slammed against the cinder-block wall and his vision whited out. When sight returned, he saw the guard raising a booted foot over his guitar case. "No!" he croaked. "Not my axe!" For the first time, a spark of interest animated Lenin's face. He raised an index finger and the militiaman froze, foot in air. "So," Lenin said, "A fellow musician?" Tex nodded warily. "Sit down." Lenin gestured to a chair, and Tex collapsed into it. His body felt bruised, aching, ugly. "My friends…" "You can do nothing for them." The militiaman, Tex noted, had not left but merely drawn back against the wall where he stood, arms folded, watching everything with avid eye. Lenin stood, walked over to the guitar case, and brought it back to his chair. Resting it across his knees, he undid the snaps. "A Martin." He held it up, admiring its shape and heft. "Not bad, for an acoustic. How did you come by it?" "I brought it with me from Austin." Tex waited for the usual questions, but Lenin surprised him by merely remarking, "You should paint the front like the Lone Star flag. It would be good theatre." He ran a thumb over the strings, coaxing a sigh from its twelve-stringed throat. "You like it here in Sevastopol?" "Sevastopol is—" He stopped. "It's a beautiful city. But I miss Texas." An inattentive nod. Lenin put the Martin down. "What kind of music do you play? Thrash, reggae, acid house?" "No way! I only play good ol' rock and roll." Lenin snorted. "Rock is dead. The bloodsuckers and moneymakers have drained it dry. There's nothing left but the carcass. Word just hasn't gotten out to the street yet." He was silent for a long moment. "There was real excitement to it in the old days. It was raw, it was impolite, it was everything your parents hated. It said to them: You cannot control us. You can't lock us in, hold us back, keep us down. We're free and we know it and there's nothing you can do about it. The future is ours. "Now? Pfaugh! It's been bought and sold, homogenized, pasteurized, processed and packaged, like so many waxed-paper cartons of yogurt." "But not your music," Tex said eagerly. "Your music is—" "Look at me!" Lenin slammed his fists on the dresser. Shocked, Tex for the first time actually looked at him critically, and saw how haggard his appearance was. There were purple circles under his eyes, and the skin hung loose and white and dry from his skull. He was more corpse than man. "I'm a fucking zombie. I've been on the road so long I can't remember anything else. Doesn't it seem to you that there's something obscene about a man my age strutting and posturing on stage, acting out juvenile fantasies of power and rebelliousness? It's a farce. It's—" An officious little man with a clipboard stuck his head in the door and barked, "Fifteen minutes." "Yes, yes." The life went out of Lenin's face. Wearily, he picked up a makeup brush. His eyes lifted to the glass and met Tex's in the reflection. "Take him out," Lenin said. His face was a mask. In the mirror, the fat militiaman smiled. A cold sizzle ran up Tex's side as he realized that anything could happen to him now. One word from Lenin, and he would be led to the basement and beaten to death. No one would ever know. The Boss stared at him for a long time, enigmatic, unreadable. Then, as if he had just now come to a decision, he added, "Give him a seat in the hall." * * * * * Tex found himself dazedly sitting third row center as the roadies slouched about the stage, hooking together the amps and running sound checks. Without fanfare the band came on, one by one, and picked up their instruments. Ignoring the applause, they tightened snares, checked the tuning of their guitars, slid a finger up and down the keyboard. Familiar faces all, but nameless. Somebody threw a spot on the empty mike at the center of the stage. The Boss did not appear. The audience began to clap in rhythm. "Len-in, Len-in, Len-in!" they chanted. The noise filled the hall, pounding, urgent, desperate, and climaxed in an explosion of screams and cheers when a sudden spotlight alerted them to curtains parting to stage left. Lenin. He strode briskly, almost angrily, on stage, while the applause went on and on and on. Light bounced from the shiny tips of his shoes. The crease in his grey trousers was sharp as a knife. When he reached the center of the stage a roadie scuttled up to hand him his Stratocaster and a second patched in the jack. They faded quickly back as, looping the guitar strap over his head, he stood up to the mike. The audience was still applauding madly. He held up a hand for quiet. The crowd hushed. He cleared his throat. The stage lights brought out the circles under his eyes, the gaunt appearance, the fatigue lying just under the skin. In an unaccented, emotionless voice, he said, "The Workers Control the Means of Production," then turned to give the band the downbeat. The band was a little ragged on the first number. The applause at its conclusion was loud but not really enthusiastic, more dutiful than heartfelt. Lenin stared down at his shoes, then up again and said, "Religion is the Opiate of the Masses," He struck a chord. Listening, Tex experienced a dismay so complete that he could feel it down in the soles of his feet. Again, the music was uninspired. There was nothing fresh there; it was all the same chops, the same licks, the same words delivered with exactly the same phrasing as they had been seventy-eighty-ninety years ago when Lenin was young and the songs were new, and people still believed that rock and roll could change the world. All the energy, all the significance was gone, transformed to mere nostalgia. And so it went, for song after song. This was horrible. One side of his face was swelling up, and Tex wanted to cry. If he hadn't been given so prominent a seat, he would have stood up and slipped away—he could hear a faint rustling off to the edges of the crowd that might be people doing just that. But it would be too noticeable if he left. It would be a slap in the Boss's face. He had no choice but to stick it out. Tex glanced to either side of him. The naval officer to his right was looking down at his watch. A moon-faced girl to his other side looked puzzled, like there was something wrong but she didn't think herself smart enough to understand what. He wondered what had become of Yuri and his other friends from the assault on the door. Their sufferings seemed grotesquely wasted now. But gradually then an odd thing began to happen. With each number, Lenin seemed to gain strength from the crowd, energy from their gathering enthusiasm, power from their applause. The band pulled together behind him. The music got tighter. Midway through "Rural Electrification," it all came together. The band went into the break, organ soaring and bass like thunder. They were really cooking now. With sudden vigor, Lenin shucked out of his grey jacket and stood in shirt and vest. A roadie materialized from the gloom to take away the jacket, but the guitarist ignored him. He ran to the edge of the stage and held the jacket out at arm's length, above the waving, grasping hands, and began to tease the fans. He dipped it down almost within their reach, then yanked it back again, and danced to center stage. Again Lenin dangled the jacket, his eyes flashing with dark amusement. And though Tex knew it was an illusion, that with the lights in his eyes Lenin couldn't distinguish one audience member from another, he felt an electric spark of contact. He leaped for the jacket, as mad as any of them to snatch the prize. Suddenly Lenin jerked back. He whirled the jacket around his head three times, then skimmed it out into the crowd. While those nearest to where it came down fought frenziedly for a scrap, he snatched up his guitar again and, spontaneously abandoning the song midway through, shouted, "Red October!" It was one of his best numbers, a real rabble-rouser, and the first chords brought all the auditorium to their feet. How long that number lasted, no one could say. He stretched it out, working changes and playing variants no other musician would even have attempted. He wrung every last drop of sweat there was to be had from it. He drove his listeners wild. Then, without pausing, he segued into his signature anthem, "Workers of the World, Unite!" The audience roared. They were standing on their chairs now, clapping their hands over their heads, dancing in the aisles. And when he came to the chorus, everyone joined in, without exception, all voices raised to sing along, one voice, united: You have nothing to lose! You have nothing to lose! You have nothing to lose… But your chains. The guitars soared and snarled. The drummer was going crazy. The noise was thunderous, the stressed-concrete roof billowed outward into the starry night to make room for it, and still it grew. Tex was jumping—jumping!—up and down atop his chair, wild with joy, ecstatic, singing along. Caught up in the music, for the first time since leaving Austin he felt not alone, but among friends. A great wave of solidarity took the crowd and made them all one, united, a part of something great. You have nothing to lose… But your chains. Now people were linking arms, Red Army with Black Sea Fleet, doctors with bureaucrats with factory workers, forming chains that stretched clear across the hall, swaying in time to the music and singing along. Up in the balcony too, everybody was singing, so great a flood of song that the Boss's voice was lost in it. Tears were rolling down Tex's cheeks. He felt such a joy as would be impossible to desc...
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plzolka.keep.pl
|
